Sick Day
by The Silver Trumpet
Summary: Maleficent takes it upon herself to care for Diaval when he gets sick. Day four for Tumblr's Maleval week. Prompt: Sick day or cooking for the other.


Sniffle. Snort. Sneeze. Hack. The loud sound of her servant spitting up phlegm drew her from what had been a relatively peaceful slumber. She rolled over and peered down on him. The day was warm, but he shivered and pulled his robes around him tighter. Her teeth grated together. The branches of her tree were low and thick; her nest had to be climbing height, after all. She refused to lower herself to sleeping on the ground like a common human. "Diaval?" Her voice wandered out of her without her consent. "Diaval, you're sick." Reluctantly, she slid off her blanket—stupid thing, a meager replacement for wings when she grew too cold to sleep—and climbed from the tree, landing agilely beside him.

He looked up at her with glossy black eyes, skin flushed, lips trembling. A cool hand brushed his sweaty forehead and confirmed that he was feverish. His eyes fluttered closed, and he leaned into her touch. She pulled away and tugged her blanket down from the tree. The temperatures were cool, though, and she knew he would get better faster in a soft bed. Or _nest_. Her teeth grated together. "Here." She shoved the cloth at him. "Get in the nest, and go to sleep."

"Mistress?" he questioned, fearing he had misheard.

She cringed at his voice, rocks grating together. It was hoarse and gravelly, even more than usual, throaty and raspy. "Did I ask if it suits your fancy?" she snapped. He flinched away from her, senses hindered and slow. He pulled himself up into the tree and curled up in a corner of the nest, but didn't appear to know what to do with the blanket. She sighed and turned to walk away. She would fight that battle when it came to her. First, he would need water. He would probably eventually require food, as well. She gathered a basket of blackberries, his favorites, and a canteen of water, and she returned to him.

He had quickly fallen into a twitchy sleep. She tugged the blanket over his shoulder the way it was supposed to rest across him and placed the canteen beside him. There wasn't much else she could do; she had learned many years ago that even magic couldn't cure a human's cold or flu. After an incident with Stefan that nearly killed him, she hadn't tried to heal him ever again. Her magic had tried to force the side effects of illness out of his system all at once—his nose ran till it bled, he coughed up phlegm until he vomited and shat his pants. How fortunate it would have been if she would've persisted all those years ago and let him die then.

But a mistake made was a lesson learned. She would have to let Diaval's sickness run through him, and—she loathed to admit this—it would be her duty to care for him to ensure that he fully recovered. Of course, this was only because she needed him to serve her; it wasn't as though she had grown at all fond of the raven in a man's skin. No, there was no fondness, not at all. He stirred slightly, mouth curled downward against a bad dream, and she stroked his thick hair as she might his plumage. His expression turned back to one of peace, but she continued to comb through his hair.

She convinced herself she was only entertaining herself from boredom by scratching his scalp, smoothing down his feathers, slicking his hair back the way he liked. She crafted some of the longer strands into tightly woven braids and tied them at the ends with daisy stems. When he started to awaken, she quickly pulled away from him and gazed toward the horizon. The sun was drifting toward early evening.

He blinked blearily up at her. "Mistress?" She wordlessly pushed the canteen at him and offered the basket of berries. He, ever so trusting, took several bold gulps of the water and ate a few berries. "Should I go to the castle now?"

She snorted. "Diaval, you are ill. You need to get some more sleep."

He bowed his head in consent and curled up again. He hadn't even noticed the daisies in his hair. Or perhaps he didn't care. She touched the back of his head and tenderly traced her fingers over his scalp again. He stiffened, and she realized too late that he wasn't yet asleep. Swallowing hard, she continued to run her fingers through his soft hair. He relaxed under her touch. "Thank you, mistress," he breathed to her.

Oh, she hated herself. Denial was impossible. Fairies were not creatures of dishonesty. She was fond of him. She loathed the friendly affections she held toward him. "Go to sleep," she ordered, but her voice was kinder than she liked. His lips curled into a smile.

At nightfall, she found herself fidgeting in her nest. It wasn't big enough. During her nights alone, it was too big to accommodate her thin frame; without her wings, she was hardly a large person. Tall, perhaps, but she was slim, and she spent many nights curled into herself shivering. Now, though, it was too small. She couldn't lie next to Diaval without touching him. She finally caved to her needs and ended up resting her chin atop his head. The blanket was long enough to sprawl over both of them, what with their closeness. Her arms wandered about, searching for a place of rest, before one of them curled around the back of his head and the other lay over his side. Their legs were knee to knee.

She was almost asleep when his heavy arm flopped over her waist and drew her even closer to him. One leg slipped over hers and gradually in between her calves. She was tempted to slap him awake, steal her blanket back, and dismiss him, but she didn't, instead trying to relax with his sleeping movements. She could feel his heartbeat against her. It was oddly almost comforting in a way. His body heat, still far too high from the fever, warmed her to the core.

If any of the moorland folk noted that Diaval stopped sleeping at the base of her tree in the long years following his brief illness, none of them mentioned it. Though, many years later when Aurora questioned why Diaval sometimes wore flowers braided in his hair, he blushed furiously and mumbled something about liking daisies.


End file.
